Squad of counselors to tackle superstorm's mental-health wreckage

Graphics

NEW YORK The image of his brother trapped in a car with water rising to his neck, his eyes silently pleading for help, is part of a recurring nightmare that wakes Anthony Gatti up, screaming, at night.

Gatti hauled his brother out of the car just in time, saving his life at the height of superstorm Sandy. The two men rode out the hurricane in their childhood Staten Island home and survived. But weeks afterward, Gatti still hasn't moved on.

Now he's living in a tent in the back yard, burning pieces of furniture as firewood, refusing to leave until the place is demolished. Day and night, he is haunted by memories of the storm.

“My mind don't let me get past the fact that I can't get him out of the car. And I know I did,” Gatti said, squeezing his eyes tightly shut at the memory. “But my mind don't let me think that. My mind tells me I couldn't save him, he dies.”

As communities battered by Sandy clear away the physical wreckage, a new crisis is emerging: the mental and emotional trauma that storm victims, including children, have endured.

The extent of the problem is difficult to measure, as many people are too anxious to even leave their homes, wracked by fears of wind and water and parting from their loved ones. Others are too busy dealing with losses of property and livelihood to deal with their grief.

To tackle the problem, government officials are dispatching more than 1,000 crisis counselors to the worst-hit areas in New York and New Jersey, helping victims begin the long work of repairing Sandy's emotional damage.

Counselors are assuring people that anxiety and insomnia are natural after a disaster. But when the trauma starts to interfere with daily life, it's probably time to seek help.

And in a pattern that played out in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina in 2005, symptoms may only get worse as victims transition from the initial shock to the disillusionment phase of the recovery.

“Folks are starting to realize that they may be in this for the long haul,” said Eric Hierholzer, a commander in the U.S. Public Health Service. “And things aren't necessarily going to get better tomorrow or next week.”

At St. John's Episcopal Hospital in Far Rockaway, the psychiatry department has recorded a 20 percent increase in walk-in patients since the storm hit, with residents reporting the whole gamut of stress-related symptoms. Anxiety. Insomnia. Panic attacks.

Local schools have referred 25 percent more children than usual to the hospital's outpatient mental health programs.

“The children are very, very traumatized,” said Fern Zagor, who runs the Staten Island Mental Health Society. “They have a hard time making sense of this sudden change in their world. It's frightening to them.”

The society is among many mental health providers who are working with Project Hope, a New York crisis counseling program funded by an $8.2 million Federal Emergency Management Agency grant that has just begun sending counselors to local communities. New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo's office estimates the program will help more than 200,000 people.

At least 20,000 people have so far made contact with counselors from the New Jersey Hope and Healing Program, which has dispatched hundreds of state-trained disaster crisis response counselors into the storm zone. The state also launched a hotline for people to call and talk to a counselor.

Jeannette Van Houten, who lost her home in Union Beach, said in a telephone interview that she feels like she's going through the same stages of grief that she endured when her niece was murdered in 2008.

“I have days that I can't put a thought together. Like you start talking and you forget what you're saying,” said Van Houten, who sleeps just two or three hours on a good night nowadays. “And the numbness, like you look at things that are happening around you, but you're not part of it.”

On Staten Island, volunteers have been quietly stopping by Anthony Gatti's tent to check in on him during his long vigil, dropping off boxes of cereal and cans of coffee. A volunteer therapist tried to talk him into leaving, but to no avail. He spends his days patrolling the property for looters and gazing at photos of the storm's destruction on his laptop.

“I keep trying to make him understand. It's a lot of wood and metal and pipes, that's all it is,” said his mother, Marge Gatti. “You've got to get numb. You gotta get tough. If I'm not numb, I can't function.”

User Agreement

Keep it civil and stay on topic. No profanity, vulgarity, racial
slurs or personal attacks. People who harass others or joke about
tragedies will be blocked. By posting your comment, you agree to
allow Orange County Register Communications, Inc. the right to
republish your name and comment in additional Register publications
without any notification or payment.